Quiet Joe, Regulator
by ThereIsNoAlex
Summary: How can one man bring order to the wastes? One criminal at a time.
1. Chapter 1 : The man in the Hat

**Quiet Joe, Regulator**

The door swung open, and there he was. Wearing a hat pulled over his eyes, a gun on his back and an easily recognized Duster. On his chest, was a silver star; its previous brightness dulled or rusted away by the wastes; but its meaning still shone. His face was one of quiet determination, marred slightly with scars gained not by accident, but through experience. Each step was as natural as a heartbeat, though retained the practiced grace of a man trained in combat. The gentle but forceful thud of his boots on the rotten floor announced his entrance and highlighted his subtle grace; he was ready to strike within a heartbeat, light but heavy. Balancing on a razor's edge, ready to strike.

He didn't fiddle; he didn't flinch, not even with every eye in the bar on him.

Not once.

He knew full well which bar he had chosen to step into, he knew a hundred percent that this bar was the last place any sane regulator would be. This place was the biggest hive of wrong doers in the whole capital wasteland, people that would slit their grandmother's throat for the right amount of caps. He was aware that almost every man, woman and ghoul in this place had there right hand on there gun and the left on there drink; ready to scull it down and start firing as soon as he even made a errant twitch towards that repeater on his back.

He didn't even bat an eyelid.

Calmly he walked over to the man in the far corner of the room, whose face was clouded by smoke, and pulled out a chair. Sitting, He stared flatly at the man, who had his arms draped around two women, both unremarkable. He wore a beaten up fedora, an open light black shirt and in his mouth was a worn cigar, lit. He lifted his hand away from one of the females, poked his hat up with his right index finger, drew the cigar from his mouth with his left hand and breathed the smoke into the Regulator's face.

"What do you want, lawman? This ain't your part of the wastes and you know it. What you looking for? Justice? Whores?" asked the man"Heh, that is if that's the team you bat for" he said, winking mockingly at the man across from him. The man responded with silence. He calmly reached into his pocket, fingering briefly the bullet casing he had found out side, and retrieved a small piece of rolled up paper, yellowed and worn. He unrolled it and smoothed it out on the table. Pictured, sketched by a witness from the scene, was the masked face of the man who sat across from him. He wore the same stupid, smug grin and the same stupid hat. Printed above, by hand in large, black, letters was **WANTED**, and below the bounty: 1,000 caps.

The man paid attention now. He sat upright, gave a sudden look of fear but quickly hid it, smoothing his features with his unoccupied hand. Putting out his cigarette in his tin cup, where the last remnants of his vodka made it go out with a small spark, he tilted his hat and looked at the man across from him. He paused for a second and then started to smirk, which quickly grew into a cocky grin, show casing his yellowed sharpened teeth. The man in the hat could make out the remnants of his last few meals, stuck between his razor-like mandibles.

The subject of what this man ate was exactly the reason the man in the duster was here.

"So, Mr. Badge, you've come to take away the one and only, undeniable, Joseph Cormack, Eater of men, stalker of the wastes?" He laughed, dislodging bits of what Joe could only guess was, or had been, someone. They landed on the table and mixed in nicely with the grime already taking residence on the grimy surface. The girls on either side of him joined in, laughing in a mocking, harsh manner; one which had been well practiced over the crumpled bodies of helpless victims, begging for mercy. Their hair, pushed up into crude shapes, and their clothes, studded leather and skulls, did not even try to conceal their lifestyle. Raiders. Scum of the wastes. Cormack went to pour another glass of Vodka, paused to examine the tin cup, and just drank from the bottle. Tilting back his head as he drank, his Adam's apple bobbed along with the rhythm of the drink sliding into his gullet. Finishing the bottle, he smacked it on the table, cracking it slightly. He stared wild eyed at the man across from him, his wild eyes suggesting that he was a little drunker than healthy.

"Who the hell do you think you are, to come and take me in?!? **ME?**" He began, ranting loudly as he stood from his place "_I'm_ a bloody legend! Who are _you_? Some man in a hat! Take that stupid thing off!" He continued, waving the bottle to punctuate each point. He laughed again. "Come on then! Let's see the face of the man I'm about to have for _dinner_!" He swayed slightly and steadied himself, pointing accusingly at the man with the hat.

"You're a fool, you stupid, ugly…oh _hell_"

The man in the duster obliged his request, and slowly removed his hat.

The whole bar went quiet.

The man looked to be in nearing middle age, with piercing blue eyes that looked weary and tired; eyes that had seen way to much out there in the wastes. Upon his face was a modest beard, neat but still stylized. He showed the first signs of wrinkles, soon to widen as he aged, around his mouth and above his it wasn't these features that shocked the populace of the bar. From just under his hairline on the left side of his face and running across the bridge of his nose and touching his right jaw bone was a large, disfiguring scar.

The scar signified to the assembled crooks the one thing that they should fear, even when they fear nothing else. He was a legend amongst these wastes, a nomad, and paradigm of justice. Some called him the ghost of the waste, unstoppable in his pursuit of justice, others called him a myth; an impossibility. How could someone with such resolute lawfulness exist in such a despicable place? He didn't answer to any of these titles, these honors. He wasn't trying to be the hero. He's just a man, doing his job. He only responded to one name.

"_Quiet Joe_" the man whispered, shocked, as he sunk back into his seat.


	2. Chapter 2: Showdown

**CHAPTER 2**

The sun, choked by the thick clouds of the wastes, beat down in fragments on the land below, as if it was shone through broken glass. Wind kicked up dust, and loose shrubs tumbled in the wind. Catching Joe's coat, it lifted it slightly but the man himself stood stead fast. The rifle, now recognized as one that had taken many a villain's life, was gripped in one hand. The other lay at his side. He was a picture of stillness, the quiet before the storm. The man across from him, however, was not so. Shaking, but feebly trying to hide it, Joseph Cormack held his revolver with white knuckled tightness. His eyes darted to his companions, those who had not discreetly left the bar after Joe's reveal, but they offered no help; either out of contempt or genuine fear. Cormack didn't know. He licked his lips and spread his feet a bit wider. Gathering his courage, or what was left of it, he raised his voice and spoke to his soon to be combatant.

"What are you waiting for? Do something!"

Joe didn't respond at first, just stared flatly for a second. Pulling his hand up in front of him he showed Cormack the three fingers he held up. The air went dead still, and Cormack's heart began racing.

"You have 3 seconds to turn your self over"

Cormack's face spread into shock, eyes widening, but he quickly regained control and smirked. He raised his gun slightly, gripping it with both hands now, and cocked back the action. The sound of the bullet entering the chamber could be heard clearly in the empty silence, regardless of the near 20 feet between the men. The wind picked up again, blowing Joe's hat up into the air. It wafted upwards on an updraft but did not fly away.

Joe put one of his fingers down.

Cormack began laughing crazily, bearing his filed teeth. His tongue whipped around his mouth as he did so; it was small and thin like a snake. He yelled to the wind as much to Joe "What are you gonna do? Huh!? As soon as you make one move I'm gonna load you full of so much lead that it won't matter who you are! I ain't the one in trouble here, boy! You are! You craz-"

Joe lowered the last finger.

It all happened in an instant. Joe raised his gun, like a man in a blur, and in one hand he held the gun perfectly straight, poised like a man with a much smaller hand gun. In the time it took the cannibal to realize what was going on and rest his finger on the trigger, the bullet had already left the barrel. It whistled through the air, flying incredibly fast. It smashed into Cormack's forehead and his head cocked back in recoil, blood spurting from the massive wound. Following through, the bullet whistled off into the distance. Wafting down from above, Joe's hat started it's descent.

Cormack's body hit the ground just as the hat did, perfectly timed it seemed.

Joe holstered his weapon with a subtle flourish, and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. Tapping the bottom to bring one to the top, The Regulator strode to the body, with his calculated steps. Reaching down, he retrieved his hat and put it on his head. Kneeling by the body, he retrieved the knife from his hidden location on his person and started to work.

The bag dropped onto desk with a small click. Sonora Cruz, leader of the Regulators, who was sitting with her hat over her eyes resting, raised the brim of her hat with on finger and observed the bag. Looking up, her eyes came to rest on the face of the man who was taking of his beaten hat.

"Joe, Nice to see you. Now as much as I love the little gifts, kitten, what is this?"

She asked, jokingly, as she precariously picked up the little bag, dangling it between her fingers. Little blood stains dotted the outside of the small burlap pouch, one of Joe's own creation for this very purpose.

"The teeth of Joseph Cormack" Joe said, pulling up a chair at the opposite side of the desk while placing his hat on the desk in question. He scratched his chin slightly and stared at the woman. She wasn't traditionally pretty, but she had a certain charm to her features, partly due to her roguish eyes. When around the lower downs, and when on duty, she was tough as nails: to the letter precision. But here, amongst old friends, she was still Sora, like she had been back in Rivet City when they were both kids. But that was a long time past. She opened the bag slightly and inspected inside, before letting it fall shut again.

"Very impressive" she said, reaching under desk for the locked draw. Sliding the key into the lock and twisting it was met with familiar click. Retrieving another small satchel, she locked the draw again and tossed it on the table.

"Here's the reward, plus part of your pay. Sorry but I can't get the rest of it to you until later. But I'll get it there" she said, her eyes wandering down to the little bag of teeth, that she quickly scooped up and deposited in the draw on the other side. Joe scooped up his pay and stood to leave. "Don't want to stay for a little while?" Sonora asked, taking her hat off her head. "Rest here for a bit before you go back out into the wastes. I gotta feeling that there's something big coming our way soon. I may need you around."

Joe turned his head on slightly to look over his shoulder at Sonora as he moved to leave the room. He paused in the door way.

"They don't rest. I don't rest"

He placed his hat on his head and left, closing the door softly behind him.


	3. Chapter 3: Bad Signs

**CHAPTER 3**

The sun had sunk behind the horizon, its dilapidated rays retreating for another day as night fell over the wastes. Flickering light projected itself from the small fire as sparks escaped into the air; visible for a brief moment then fading into nothing. Orange light from the flame framed the features of the sole occupant of the small camp. Shadow's danced across his face as he gazed off into the darkness, as if staring at something that was not there, but always there. Regardless of how much he fought, how many evil people he brought down, he couldn't win. For every bastard he took out, another took their place. It frustrated him to the point of madness that he couldn't stop the tide, only stem it briefly. He picked up a stone from the ground and tossed it into the night, in some weak defiance of its slowly encompassing reach. It was at times like this were he wondered if it even mattered if he kept fighting. _I mean, the world was supposed to end with the bombs, but yet here the people are, still killing and thieving and doing horrible things. Maybe there's no saving a world this far gone. _

He picked up another stone _Maybe there's no use in being a good guy in hell._

Standing, he moved to kick dirt on the flame. It sputtered out and he turned in the dark to find his small tent. Crawling inside, he slunk beneath his blanket and drifted off.

Once again the sun peeked its way through the choking clouds, and onto the barren wastes below. Joe stood before the mouth of a valley and considered his options. Through this valley was the quickest way to the nearest Settlement, Dead Rock, but it looked mighty suspicious. However, the alternative was a long trek around, which would add at least 2 days to his journey. Also, the wind had been kicking up dust all day, and within the valley there would be more visibility. He looked the entrance up and down once more, sighed slightly and hoisted his pack on his back, and maneuvered his rifle to sling by his side. Walking forward, he took his first steps into the valley.

Further down and on the lip at the top of the 20 foot high cliff face lay a man, automatic rifle in hand. He checked the clip and the safety again, as well as the scope he had fixed onto the body. Finally he checked the forestand, which rested on a rock in front of him. Peering through the scope, he picked out his companions, all in position as agreed. He whipped sweat from his brow; the dusty black and brown uniforms they wore where not at all comfortable in the midday sun. But that was not what mattered now.

What mattered now was the target.

Joe sat down on a near by rock, and pulled out his water flask. He had been walking for about an hour and the end was no where to be seen. But, then again, he hadn't expected it to be. He unscrewed the lid and took a swig, and enjoyed the cooling effects of the water as it slid down his throat. It wasn't cool by any means, but any water was good water. In the wastes, you took what was given to you and didn't ask for more. Sliding his pack off his back, he looked up around him as the pack slumped to the earth. High cliff faces all around, no way of climbing up without some serious gear. The clouds moved in swirling patterns above.

A bad sign.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joe caught the glimpse of something. Turning quickly, he only just had enough time to roll behind the rock before it was pumped with lead. Joe crouched low, the boulder covering him from the fire, but not by much. _Where is my gun?!?_ He thought, scanning the surroundings.

_Of course_. The gun lay with the pack, on the other side of the boulder. He was pinned, with no gun. He peeked over the boulder, but was met by more fire that he quickly dodged. He had to think of a plan. Looking up, he saw across from him a large, plinth like stone. _Best shot I got_ he said, and readied himself.

Launching off the ground at a sprint, he narrowly dodged the bullets that ricocheted off the dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust. Diving, he ended in a roll behind the plinth, and stood to find a man in black and brown fatigues standing in front of him, sword in hand. The assailant swung his long blade in a downward arc, which Joe dodged, followed by a slice in the opposite direction. Joe backed into the plinth as the attacker readied another strike. Thinking quickly, Joe ducked under the incoming strike from the side. With a satisfying thud, our hero looked up to see the blade embedded in the rock. Following through with a crouching uppercut, Joe caught the man on the chin, sending him flying onto his back. Drawing his hidden blade, the regulator moved to finish the downed assassin. As soon as he got within a meter of the man, however, he launched up to his feet from his back, using his lower abdominals to do so. Swinging wildly with his fists, he caught Joe in gut, doubling him over.

"It's done" said the man, as he held his fists above his head, poised to deliver the final blow.

_*SHUNK*_

Stunned, the man stumbled backwards, as he looked down at the blade protruding from his chest. Falling backwards, his eyes rolled back into his head as he breathed his last breath. Joe stood, and gave a brief nod to the fallen man, in acknowledgment of fight well fought.

Pulling the sword from the stone, he pushed his back flat against the plinth, and used the blade to catch the reflection of gunman. Scanning the cliff top, he caught the gleam of the scope, just as he had before. He studied his surroundings and his mind worked overtime, formulating a plan.

_Got it_

Somersaulting forward, he withdrew the blade from the man's chest and crouched behind a nearby boulder. In his mind he counted how many shots he had heard. Having figured it out, he took a deep breath and ran from the cover.

The man opened fire again, shooting around the weaving and sprinting Quiet Joe. The bullets kicked up the dust around his feet, but none so much as grazed the Regulator. It wasn't so much that he was particularly fast, just that the man was not a great shot by his standards. Within the mind of our hero, the bullets where counting down.

_5…2…1...Empty_

Skidding to a halt a meter from the cliff face, he arched back his right hand. Held in a loose grip was the blade, wet with the blood of the fallen assailant. Targeting the man, he launched his arm forward, sending the blade flying straight for the man. Before he could even reach for the second clip, the knife found its home within the man's eyes. He slumped and fell forward over the cliff face, landing with a sickening crunch. Satisfied that the threat was over, Joe turned on his heel and was met with the barrel of a gun. Standing before him was the last assassin, dressed like the others, and holding a 10mm hand gun to his forehead.

"Don't make any sudden movements, you son of a bitch. You've played very well, but this is the end of the line for you, bud" spat the man angrily, as he cocked the handgun. "Got any last words" Joe could pick out the sound of the bullet making its way to the chamber. He should have been really afraid, and he was for all of two seconds, but then he smiled.

"Just two. Don't Blink"

Suddenly, the wind picked up incredibly, blowing dust everywhere. The rising sands quickly obscured the view of the last assassin, and he sputtered as it entered his gaping mouth. Wind kicked the sand every which way, and it spiral upwards just like the clouds above. A bad sign, for some. As it cleared there stood the two figures, one with the gun to the others head. Joe held the gun tightly, and had it firmly planted within the man's eyes. He was staring defiantly up at the man.

"Go on, hero, pull the trigger. Then we'll see who the hero is"

Joe pulled the gun away, and the other man relaxed, before he brought back across his face in a harsh slap, sending the man sprawling onto his face. Walking over, Joe pulled the prone man up by the scruff of his neck.

"Who sent yo-" he started, but stopped quickly. The man was dead, and froth escaped from his mouth in bubbling waves. His eyes had rolled back into his heads, and Joe stared hard into the vein covered whites of the dead man before him. _Cyanide Pill. Dammit!_ He thought, releasing the man who slumped back wards in an awkward position. Joe fell backwards into a sitting position and stared upwards at the sky, observing the clouds again.

"This was no random hit. They knew I was coming this way. And it was too well planned for these guys to be random raiders. So, that leaves one possibility"

Standing he reached down and started searching the corpse for any kind of insignia. The sunlight caught the gleam of a pair of dog tags, which Joe quickly removed with a sudden tug. Staring at the tag, he only saw a number and a strange symbol. Engraved into the tag were three shapes, all touching. He had never seen it before. Pocketing the tags, he went to retrieve his stuff.

_Someone wants me dead, someone organized wants my head. _

He stopped and looked towards the direction of Dead Rock.

_And I'm gonna find out why_


End file.
